


the whole shape of it

by secret_ivy



Series: The Memories Collection [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Explicit Sexual Content, Gen, Greg Lestrade & Sherlock Holmes Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mycroft in Love, Non-Linear Narrative, Original Character Death(s), POV Mycroft Holmes, Pre-Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-04-23 19:06:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19157128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secret_ivy/pseuds/secret_ivy
Summary: Greg Lestrade, in the mind palace of Mycroft Holmes.





	1. the quietest place he knows

1

For a long time, he sets this memory in the quietest place he knows — underneath the pillow in his childhood room, in the dark, before his siblings, before he understood more about the world.

* * *

Gregory’s eyes are a clear, dark brown. Not whimsical like the bark of some aged tree in a fairy tale forest. They’re a familiar brown — the leather strap on his attaché case, the crust of bread at their last lunch date.

“I want this. I want us, for keeps, for as long as we’ve got.”

Mycroft had stared for as long as he could; exhaustion was rapidly catching up with him. He had spent all his energy in the long hours before this moment. There had been _so many_ people in the way of getting to the other man.

Now, in the aftermath of everything, Mycroft takes in a handful of things: Gregory, the regular beeping of his monitor, the open look in his lover's eyes. The sharp scent of anti-septic that always lingers in hospitals, even a private and wildly expensive as this one. He feels the bed give softly under him as he moves closer. His fingertips tingle when pressed against the other man’s stubble.

“Alright. Yes. As you wish, Gregory.” And he doesn’t have visuals for this memory, a pity, because his eyes had closed, blinded by the miracle in front of him, but his fingers knew the edges of that smile, would know the whole shape of it anywhere.


	2. just the cover

2

He has an assigned office for his 'minor government role.' There's a desk, a chair, two cabinets, a framed copy of one of his diplomas near the door - all in all, a practical, ordinary office.

In one corner, there is a bookshelf. At Mycroft's standing eye level, tucked between a handful of other well-known political works, there’s a translated copy of _The Art of War_ by Sun Tzu. 

That's just the cover — inside is Pablo Neruda’s _The Book of Questions_ , in the original Spanish. 

* * *

The bank’s CCTV is clear enough that Mycroft can lipread every word the inspector is saying to his brother as they sit at a local cafe. 

It’s been a week and change since this man has come into Sherlock's life.

The file states that Inspector Gregory Lestrade has gone through rotations in protection command and the robbery divisions before joining Major Crimes. Among the higher solve rates in his department, generally well liked by his peers, no evidence of corruption. 

The file also states he is married. She’s already cheated on him once, although there doesn't appear to be a high risk for bribery or public scandal at the moment. No children, believes it is unfair because of the risks of the job, but there’s a natural protective instinct in the man, despite the select blindness. He would not be there with a junkie, Sherlock or no, if he didn’t sense something more.

There’s a brief pause in their chat when the waitress appears. Lestrade orders a pot of tea ( _"Whatever has the most caffeine, please. We're going to need it."_ ) and a ham and brie sandwich without looking at the menu. The establishment is less than 10 minutes by foot from NSY.

Of course, Mycroft can’t see Sherlock’s face. Even coming down from a high, his brother knows to look at corners and upward. Regardless, there are of plenty of other sources to deduce from.

_“You’re fucking brilliant, but I can’t have you anywhere near a scene right now, with the way you are. You know that, Sherlock.”_

A pause, as Sherlock responds. Even through a dark coat and the back of a chair, Mycroft knows his brother is completely tensed up.

The waitress appears again, places two cups, a teapot, and a plate with the sandwich on the table. 

Mycroft looks at her face. She thinks Sherlock and Lestrade are father and son, good God, this is why he avoids people in general. 

Lestrade tries to smile politely at her, but it comes out as a slight grimace instead. He waits for her to get back to the counter before saying, “ _Now eat the sandwich, you damned idiot.”_

Sherlock makes no move toward the plate between them. 

The inspector gets a pinched look on his face, continues talking, his body language closing, head tilted slightly down, lips harder to read now. Mycroft gets the gist, but not the exact words.

The other patrons don’t pay them any attention. Only two are close enough to hear, and neither of them are threats. 

After several minutes of what he categorizes as a useless reprimand to his brother, Mycroft watches as Lestrade reaches for the teapot and starts pouring, first the cup closest to Sherlock, then his own.

In the seconds between pours, Sherlock’s left arm shifts. At this angle, it must be moving over the table. 

Sherlock’s right hand is gesturing outward in an arch, while his left elbow is moving down, left hand is up and holds steady, and _oh_.

Mycroft stares a moment longer at the back of his brother’s head on the screen, then shifts his eyes to examine Lestrade’s face. He appears only moderately annoyed now. His broad shoulders have lifted back up.

How unexpected. _This requires a direct meeting, then._

He closes the video recording and plans.


	3. An imperfection in an otherwise well-designed room

3

Other than the outer common area and The Stranger's Room, there are three secret rooms inside Diogenes. As a founder, Mycroft has his own room locked to his bio-signature and soundproofed like the rest of the club. 

He knows this room like other people know their homes. He picked the leather couches, the painting by Alfred William Parsons,the wide mahogany desk.

On top of the desk is a brass paperweight. It’s shaped as a lion in mid roar. There's a scratch running along the lion's mane and onto one of its front legs. An imperfection in an otherwise well-designed room.

* * *

Every new piece in the detective's growing file, every personal interaction over the years leads Mycroft to the conclusion that Gregory Lestrade rarely becomes furious. Frequently frustrated (how could he not be with the things he sees on the job, his divorce, _his brother_ ), but not furious.

“What the hell is going on?! I get that you’re Sherlock’s minor-government-official-my-arse brother,” the elder Holmes lets out an unintentional snort at this, “but swiping a case from my team, one we’ve been working on for weeks, with a dead officer? Christ, Mycroft!”

Lestrade continues to pace, running his hands through his hair, as if trying to rub the sleepless nights and anger from his skin. Mycroft’s lips thin.

“I do apologize for the abruptness, but time was of the essence.”

The detective lurches to a stop. His hands drop to his sides as he turns to look at Mycroft. There’s an unnatural stillness in his face.

Mycroft has seen it before, but never directed at him, not by this man. Something heavy and aching settles in his chest and he presses his lips together to stop himself from revealing too much.

“You won’t tell me more than that. Just slap on ‘national security’ and be on your merry way.”

The detective's face is gaining that same pinched look from all those years ago, sitting in a cafe across from Sherlock, trying to save a man who was knowingly killing himself by inches.

“Lestrade-"

“His name was James Hanson. I was at his wedding." There's wetness gathering in Gregory's eyes. "He got pissed with his cousins and best man, then woke up in the wrong room. But his wife was in the same room, just in the bathtub with all the pillows and towels." He drags in a stuttering breath. "Their oldest turns 6 in two months."

“I know.” Of course he does. Anthea took the files from Scotland Yard. Carol Hanson received an anonymous donation to cover the entire cost of her husband's funeral.

The man in front of him breaks, tears finally falling. 

He can only stare as Gregory stumbles toward him and shoves his face into Mycroft’s shoulder.

They rock, together, almost tipping over. Mycroft tenses his back, shifts to counterbalance, keeps them upright.

Gregory doesn’t lift his arms for more contact, just presses his face deeper, a wounded sound spilling from him, spilling into Mycroft.

“Tell me who did it.”

He stiffens, his hands clenching into fists, his spine a line of steel. 

"No." ( _Anton Khachaturyan, 38, Polish national, wanted by Interpol for five murders, suspect in at least three more, has enough blackmail on a member of Parliament to warrant my immediate personal attention, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Gregory, I can't give you this._ )

His jaw aches.

A pause. A deep breath in. A deep breathe out. Another deep breath in.

“Tell me you’ll make them pay.”

The words cut into Mycroft, burning something wide and vicious and covetous in their wake. 

He shoves the feeling away, shuts it in a box; he needs to stay focused. He can examine his reaction later.

Mycroft forces his right hand to relax. He lays it gently on the other man's neck. He strokes warm skin and silver hair with his thumb. Listens to their breaths sync and even out.

“Of course, Gregory.”


	4. the same blue-white

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was unplanned smut. So that implied sexual content tag has been upgraded to an explicit sexual content tag.  
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

4

He has a set of hand-painted Christmas ornaments. He bought them years ago in Vienna during a business trip, half on a whim.

Throughout most of the year, the thirteen glass orbs are in storage, protected by bubble wrap and old newspaper. Twelve are clear glass, swirls of blue-white paint that hint at ice and snow, their hooks made of delicate curved silver.

The thirteenth, a detailed fireplace scene with tiny stockings in the same blue-white, had been a gift from the owner, an unexpected thank you for business during the low tourist season.  

* * *

There's a smear of lubricant on the inside of Gregory's knee.

Mycroft takes a minute to focus on it and slowly pulls back from the lust fogging his brain.

Gregory is spread out below him, all flushed skin and trembling hips. Both hands pushing against the headboard, feet braced against the bed, impatient.

"God, you teasing bastard. I want it faster. _Harder._  I won't break, please, for God's sake, please, please." 

Mycroft is trying very hard to distract himself — who is he kidding, his hips jerking forward once, twice, listening to his lover's shattered moans, stalking the beads of sweat trailing down Gregory's throat with his tongue.

He grasps at the remains of his willpower and manages to slow down again.

This is only the second time they've engaged in penetrative sex. He is the first male partner Gregory has had in decades. He's supposed to be the patient one.

(The first time had been a steady stream of long kisses and warm hands and preparation. Gregory had given him relaxed, small smiles the next morning, but couldn't hide a wince sitting at the kitchen table.) 

"My-Mycroft, _please_."

 _By God, that's unfair._ He barely keeps his thrusts slow and shallow.

Gregory stops trying to push more deeply onto Mycroft's cock. He takes in a few deep breaths and lowers his arms to rest next to his head. 

For a moment, Mycroft is both disappointed and terribly glad.

Until the other man's brown eyes gain a mischievous glint.

Gregory slowly lifts his legs, holds himself open, an obscene offering. Where they are joined glistens with a mixture of lubricant and their sweat.

_Make that extremely unfair._

He takes a hold of Gregory's knees, pushes them further apart, his thumb slipping on that smear of lube. 

Mycroft roughly shoves back into slick tight heat, grinds down into where he knows the prostate is. Does it again. Again.

"Fuck!" Gregory shouts, back arched, head thrown back into the pillows, eyes clenched shut. _You’re_ _so breathtakingly beautiful_. "Finally! Thank you!"

Everything is waves of blue-white heat smashing through whatever is left of his senses. He gives in.


	5. plans

The new bed sheets are a satin silk blend. They’re deep blue, but lighter in the soft lamplight. For a moment, Greg seems to be floating on his back, silver hair a pale wave around his sleeping face.

_Wouldn’t that be fitting_ , Mycroft thinks while buttoning his waistcoat. _A siren_.  _Something otherworldly._

Anthea is on the way to pick him up for an emergency meeting, yet he's still standing at the foot of the bed staring. He needs to put on socks.

Instead, he tastes salt and heat on his lips from Gregory’s chest, hears a sleepy, “What’s happening, are you heading out?”

Mycroft presses his right hand onto a bare hip, holding. There's an old scar there, barely an inch in length, and a memory of Gregory's laugh overlaps it. He strokes it once before straightening up and walking to the dresser. 

“Yes, for a few hours. I’ll be back by breakfast." He picks a pair of socks and sits at the foot of the bed to put them on. Sensing movement behind him, he turns half way to see what Greg is doing.

His lover has spread out to cover both sides of the bed, tanned skin sliding against the smooth sheets. The blue fabric accentuates his toned thighs and does absolutely nothing to hide anything else.

Gregory gives him a knowing look. “Give me a proper goodbye kiss,” a touch cheeky, even through the sleepiness. 

Mycroft sighs, thinks that the security council could go shove it for another ten minutes, and slinks up the bed on all fours.

He leaves his thumb at the corner of Gregory’s mouth as bait, while pressing a chaste kiss to his temple. Mycroft feels dry lips on the pad of his thumb, a slow sweep of wet heat across his index finger. _Tease_.

“Tease. Alright then, love, see you for breakfast.”

Greg wiggles and sinks underneath the covers.

He finally gets his socks on as his phone buzzes.

**Johnson is driving. File sum ETA - 5 mins.**

Mycroft turns the lamp off and gently closes the bedroom door behind him.

* * *

The Kyoto Garden in Holland Park is currently closed for renovations. He plans to show Greg the koi pond after their anniversary dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. :D
> 
> So what started as a quick 5+1 on my phone has escalated to a series. D: Nothing full throttle, but I will be posting at least one standalone piece I'm still working on. 
> 
> There was supposed to be another chapter for _the whole shape of it_ , but I edited it out because the tone was heavy (even more than chapter 3). It's the end of Pride Month. I'm not capable of giving these two anything other than softness right now.
> 
> Thank you for reading this far and I hope you enjoy what I have coming up!


End file.
